I know that I must look awful…the others here are heavily bruised and scarred, and it would be stupid of me to assume that I look any better. You grow callous to the pain of wounds quickly; you learn to ignore when a limb goes numb or figure out ways to get around its immobility. Even now I’m typing this with my sub-arms…there’s something wrong with the main ones. They’ll heal if I let them rest, I think. But I can’t rest, so they’ve only gotten worse.

It’s not just that. It’s not just the bruises that make a trade Poleepkwa stand out; it’s their expression. Flat, masklike grin, hollow eyes above, half-dead…or weak and afraid from too many nights with nothing but a pipe, cat food and endless phone calls for company. You get “shop-worn” so quickly—all the energy, all the hope gets ground out of you, bit by bit. Each “john” is twenty, fifty dollars worth of pain and helplessness, teaching you what this is all about. It’s a gigantic machine, the egg trade, and we’re caught in the cogs. If we’re trapped like this for much longer we’ll be nothing but shattered plating and bloody flesh.

I haven’t tried teaching any of the kids here about math, science or space—what’s the use? Civilization isn’t here, except for the buildings you pass by and the blood money that you’re traded for. Fundamental things, basic animal things are what’s demanded; not education. The only thing possible at this point is simply giving them your food, cleaning their wounds, getting them out of a beating by getting in trouble just after they do…Blue Fly always picks the adults first, and that tires him out. They don’t ask for anything else—they don’t ask for that either. You do what you can, knowing that it won’t be returned or appreciated openly, at least not for now. Maybe, out of this place, it will…I don’t know.

Take Betelgeuse; half my age, one-third my size and more scarred then any of us. He’s one of the ones who have been here for over a year—I think he’s always getting into trouble because he feels that the only way out is at the end of that pipe. Betelgeuse has been here too long to not know the rules…he’s had no life but this. Even now, the only name he’s ever had is his “shop name.” It’s perverse…how can I tell this child about the universe and our home beyond this planet when the names of stars are equated with slavery and pain? How can I give him hope when he’s told me to “lay off the talk of outside; it won’t happen anytime soon?”

You can’t. You can try…but you can’t do it. Not in a week. Not in a month, or maybe even a year—but I’ll keep trying. There has to be hope.

Our group will be getting moved soon—several “breeders”, prostitutes, and guards. I can tell because Blue Fly has slacked somewhat in bruising us with his taped pipe; he wants us to look as good as possible for the buyer. I don’t know exactly where we’ll be going, but I caught a peek at Blue Fly’s list of names and saw, “De Oro.” My best guess is that we’re going to end up somewhere where Spanish is spoken, but I may be wrong. I’m probably wrong…these names were designed to be misleading and snazzy. When we get there we’ll find out, I guess, and I’ll tell you as soon as I can.

Vega—the “breeder” who sleeps near me—laid her egg today, two weeks early. Blue Fly snatched it away almost right after it was laid. It’s gone now. We all saw it wheeled out, an innocent little bundle of life and potential…it won’t stay that way forever. It won’t stay that way for more than a month.

Of all the grief here—out of all the pain, loneliness, and fear here in this business—there’s nothing worse than that of a parent whose child has been taken away. Not only that, but stolen so that it can be sold to those who won’t love it, who will only mistreat the poor, poor thing…Vega’s inconsolable. Blue Fly wants her to get pregnant again as soon as she can, but I don’t think she will. You can tell…she’d rather be beaten to death than lose another egg.

She wouldn’t be, though. That’s not the way it is here. Here you’re beaten to the point in which you can’t get up, you’re about to die, but you don’t. Your owner keeps you alive, bandaging your wounds with ripped cloth, administering cat food as both your food and pain medication, letting you rest on your square of tarp for the rest of the night. He does all this, if only to keep you healthy enough to survive the next round of customers and the next time you’re thrown to the ground and struck with that pipe until your back is bloody, your shell-plates cracked, your body shivering violently even when it feel s like it’s on fire.

You’re worthless dead, and you’re worth keeping only when you’re making money. That’s why I can’t decide which is worse—the egg trade or D-10. They’re just as horrible, but in different ways. Radically different ways…but both need to be shut down for good.